Skeletons Stories

The Old Absinthe House is dead. The French Quarter is a cemetery. The bar’s doors are thrown open to the elements and a gentle breeze drifts in with the dancing notes of a street corner clarinetist. I recognize the tune, but it takes a second to place it. I remember a Janjaweed commander who wore out an old vinyl record during an impromptu interview. Sidney Bechet. ‘Blues in Thirds.’ I shiver, the tune dredging up the kin...